


To Fall At Your Feet

by stayclassycait



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:32:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayclassycait/pseuds/stayclassycait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his final year of eligibility, Erik finds himself chosen in District Twelve's reaping for the 65th Annual Hunger Games. Erik's lifelong hatred for the Capitol reaches its peak, and he decides that he will be the one to win the Games this year, even if he has to kill everyone in his way. And there are quite a few in his way: A brother and sister from District Nine with nothing to lose, a ruthless female tribute from District One, the small but fierce girl from his own district- and a curious boy from District Five who vows against harming a single living being in the arena, who is bent on returning home to his family and also being Erik's ally in the Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks! I've been dying for a Hunger Games/X-Men crossover, and after rereading the series I decided to write one myself. I haven't seen the movie yet, so this is purely book-based. Also, the X-canon is a mixture of XMFC and the comics, as per usual with my fiction. 
> 
> Please feel free to leave feedback, and enjoy!

Erik clenches his jaw and grits his teeth together as the icy cold rain falls down upon everyone gathered in the square, watching the stage (conveniently covered with a canopy-type structure so that all the _important people_ stayed dry) and silently urging the mayor to get a move on before all of the kids (and more importantly, Erik himself) froze to death.

 _Last year_ , he thinks to himself. _Last year in the Reaping, at the home, and then I’ll be out of this forsaken place._

The cold only seems to maximize the violent cramps of hunger just below his ribs, and Erik hunches forward slightly and suppresses a shiver. District Twelve hadn’t had rain in months, why did it have to be today that the sky finally decided to dump buckets of cold water down on them?

To his relief, the mayor finally returns his watch to the pocket of his coat, standing up from his chair and striding over to the microphone. Erik wonders why this speech is even necessary anymore. They all know why they had the Games, how the rebels fought valiantly and lost miserably, and how twenty-four children would go into the arena and only one would come out. Why did they have to be reminded?

Thankfully, the mayor seems to feel for those standing in the streets, and cuts some of the more tedious parts from his speech and speaks with a bit more speed than usual. After that, he steps aside, and then it’s time to draw the names. Some Capitol woman that Erik hardly dared to learn the name of steps up to the microphone, clearing her throat and shifting her weight from foot to foot nervously. To her credit, she doesn’t smile and try to pass this off as some kind of celebration.

Girls first.

Erik looks over to the other side of the square where the girls stand, separated by age in roped-off blocks that had barely enough room to stand. The tension in the air becomes tangible as the Capitol woman totters on her ridiculous shoes over to the glass ball holding thousands of slips of paper, placing one hand on the edge before leaning forward and dipping her arm in. She brings out the first piece of paper she got her fingers around, and walks back over to the microphone and clears her throat again.

“Angel Salvadore.” She says hoarsely, searching the crowds for a figure moving forward. There’s a moment of silence, and then a girl that Erik recognizes only from the hallways at school emerges from the crowd. Erik doesn’t know how old she was, or even where she lives—Though she has the dark skin and hair of the Seam—All he knows is that she had never taken any notice of him, and sometimes she showed up to school with barely-concealed bruises  on her arms and face. Erik didn’t take pity on her, of course—There are much worse fates than abusive homes in District Twelve. Like the community home he’d lived in for as long as he could remember.

There’s a spattering of applause for the girl, and Erik’s teeth begin chattering as the rain soak through the back of his shirt and droplets ran down his spine. The Capitol woman walks over to the boy’s side, now, picking the slip right off the top to save time and trouble. Erik can appreciate that kind of dedication to getting the Hell out of here.

She clears her throat _again_ , then leans in towards the microphone, already scanning the audience before she even calls out the name.

“Erik Lensherr.”

Erik is stunned. This was his last year of eligibility, how could he have been chosen? Sure, he’d taken tesserae when the food at the home was so scarce that no one could eat, not even the staff, but surely it hadn’t been that many times over the years—

“Erik Lensherr?” The woman repeats, and Erik sniffs and pushes past the boys standing in front of him. It is only when he begins moving that people recognized him as the chosen tribute—Erik supposes that made sense. No one knew him here, and he had worked hard to keep it that way. Years of trying to stay under the radar so that when the time came he could slip under the fence and run as far as his feet would take him, and hopefully die alone in the forest. All of that work and careful planning, down the drain.

Erik feels numb as he climbs the steps leading up to the stage, though he isn’t sure if it’s from shock or the cold rain. He feels unsteady and disconnected from his surroundings, and nearly loses his footing on the slippery stairs. He probably looks like an idiot, tripping all over the place. He reminds himself that he is on national television, now, and looks up to the massive screen above the stage. Sure enough, the camera is closed in on his face, damp hair sticking to his forehead and his wet clothes hanging off his near-emaciated frame. He scowls at his image, squaring his shoulders and moving to stand beside Angel, who doesn’t even so much as glance at him.

The mayor steps up again and begins his long reading of the Treaty of Treason. Erik might have been annoyed, but he’s out of the rain now and has much bigger things to think about. District Twelve never wins the Games, for the simple fact that their tributes are underfed, weak, and usually pretty stupid. Erik glances at Angel, and chews on the inside of his cheek in thought. He’s underfed, sure. But they feed tributes up until the Games, and as soon as he ate, Erik would be by no means weak. Furthermore, he certainly wasn’t stupid, and he had a feeling that Angel wasn’t, either. Still, being well fed, strong, and clever wasn’t even half of it. Erik will still have to fight against twenty-three other tributes, six of which would be Careers, and the rest of which could be any kind of smarter, faster, or stronger than Erik.

Maybe Erik could just run for the Cornucopia as soon as the Games started and let himself be killed in the bloodbath. That didn’t sound so terrible, really.

Erik silently seethes over just how senseless this all is. Districts losing two kids every year just for the Capitol to make some kind of sick point. _You are weak, we are strong, and don’t you forget it._ Erik clenches his fists at his sides, glaring ahead and wishing desperately that he could spin around and punch the Capitol woman. Beat her until she was nothing but a colorful lump of bloody flesh.

It occurrs to him that he could put all of this anger and hatred for the Capitol to good use. He could win the Games, go on his victory tour like every victor did. He could go to the Capitol, walk right up to the President, and tell him exactly what he thought of his stupid little Games. Then he could strangle him.

Erik knows that this fantasy is as ridiculous as it is unlikely to ever happen, but the thought of killing the bastard on live television brings him great satisfaction. Besides, he couldn’t just give up before he even got the arena. He can’t give those people the satisfaction. He _won’t._

Erik is brought out of his reverie as the mayor’s long and mundane reading of the Treaty ends, the Panem anthem begins, and the Peacekeepers advance upon Angel and Erik, ushering them back into the Justice Building without wasting a single second. Erik and Angel are separated, and taken to private rooms. Erik knows that this is the part where people are supposed to come visit the tributes—Their friends, families, neighbors, other people they’ve come to know well that they want to say goodbye to. But Erik doesn’t have any of those things, know any of those sorts of people, and so he just stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, dripping water onto the worn carpet underfoot and looking around for a blanket or towel that he can dry his hair and shoulders on.

He finds no such thing, and so continues to stand in solemn silence, thinking over what exactly his strategy should be. He knows he’ll have plenty of time to develop these sorts of things in the Training Center. Normally, a tribute is supposed to discuss strategy with their mentor, but District Twelve has only had one victor in the last few decades and Erik knows him as a belligerent, offensive and generally unpleasant son of a bitch that only ever leaves the Victor’s Village to buy liquor and stir up trouble. Erik already knows that he’s on his own.

After twenty minutes, the Peacekeepers return, and Erik and Angel are reunited at the back of the Justice Building. Erik can see from her bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks that Angel has been crying, but says nothing to her about it. He’s not about to complain about having a weak fellow tribute. It just means that someone else will kill her before he has to.

The Capitol woman rushes forward with towels before the two tributes can step out onto the platform, and as Erik gets a closer look at her, he realizes that she really isn’t all that ridiculous looking—As far as Capitol dogs go, anyway. She has a lot of make up on, sure, but at least her hair is still some semi-natural shade of brown and her clothing could certainly be a lot worse. He decides to at least try to be nice to her, as she doesn’t seem to be any happier being here than he does. He silently wonders if people like her take these jobs willingly, or are selected for it, just like Tributes are.

As he racks his memory, he’s pretty sure her name starts with an M.

Erik takes one of the towels from her and throws it over his head, rubbing it over his damp hair and then the back of his neck. His clothes are still wet, but at least his face isn’t. He hands the towel to some servant that comes to retrieve it, and pushes his hair back while combing through it with his fingers. He watches Angel gently pat her long black hair dry, then wipe her face, arms, and shoulders with it before handing it off as well. The Capitol woman seems satisfied, though that seemingly permanent worried expression remains on her features, and she moves to stand behind them and gently puts her hands on their shoulders and moves them forward.

The back doors of the Justice Building are opened by Peacekeepers, and Angel and Erik are immediately bombarded with camera flashes and people yelling out questions. Erik feels a bit claustrophobic, as the entire station is filled with the reporters and they have given he and Angel only a narrow pathway to the train. He strides purposefully to the doors, and is about to step inside when the Capitol woman grabs the back of his shirt and forces him to turn around and face the cameras. Erik scowls at her, but remains in place as their images are captured to be aired and printed on newspapers at the Capitol tonight after the footage of the Reapings is shown.

After five minutes or so, Erik and Angel are mercifully allowed to enter the train. As soon as the doors slide closed behind them, Erik feels the train begin to glide forward on the tracks without a hitch. It must be one of those sleek, high-speed Capitol trains, Erik thinks, but doesn’t linger on it. He’s eager to get alone and have some time to think in peace and quiet.

The Capitol woman guides them to their own individual bedrooms in the train going on about how they should be ready for supper in a couple of hours, and Erik isn’t listening to her because he’s sure that he’s never seen a room so luxurious. There’s a bed big enough for two people to sleep in, with what looks to be a mountain of pillows and a plush comforter. There’s a dressing area filled with all sorts of clothes, a private bathroom with a gigantic shower with hot water ( _hot water!_ ), and best of all, the Capitol woman tells Erik and Angel that everything is at their disposal.

Erik plans to take advantage of that, thank you very much, and as soon as the woman leaves, Erik strips out of his wet clothes and runs to the bathroom, tracing the buttons on the control panel for the shower with his fingertips. Gingerly, he tests a few from outside of the shower, unsure of what each one will do. After nearly twenty minutes of messing around, he finally seems to learn which buttons produce cleaning products, which control the temperature, and which change fragrances. He steps under the spray and immediately groans as the steaming water hits his shoulders. Erik’s never experienced such a glorious feeling in his life, and he spends a good ten minutes just standing under the hot water and reveling in it before actually getting to washing. He chooses the simplest products he can find (though they’re still outrageously lavish by District Twelve standards, where all that’s used is cold water and a bar of soap), lathering it in his hair and scrubbing every square centimeter of grime and coal dust from his body before he’s satisfied. He reluctantly turns off the water and steps out of the shower, grabbing a huge towel softer to the touch than any fabric Erik’s ever felt before and wrapping it around himself.

He walks back into the bedroom, completely forgetting that he’s being taken on a high-speed train to what will technically be his living nightmare and possibly death as he digs through the dresser for clothes. He finds a pair of dark pants of better quality than anything he owns at home, and pulls them on along with a soft black sweater that seems to hold in all the warmth from the shower. Erik dries his hair with the towel before carelessly throwing it to the floor, deciding it was high time that he investigate the bed. He runs his hand over the duvet, then pushes against one of the pillows, and finally crawls on top of it, letting his head fall into the pile of pillows as he runs his arms and legs over the top blankets. Erik’s fairly certain this thing is made of a cloud, and he resorts to simply rolling around on the plush surface and grinning like an idiot. He knows he’s alone, and so allows himself to act ridiculous and even laugh out loud a few times, completely wrapped up in the luxury of this room. What he wouldn’t give to live here forever.

There’s a knock on the door, and Erik immediately freezes, halfway wrapped up in the top covers with pillows strewn about on the mattress and the floor. After a moment, the person at the door knocks again, and Erik grumbles and untangles himself from his soft cocoon to go answer it. He expects the Capitol woman to be back, but as he opens the door he discovers that it’s Angel, looking equally as clean as Erik feels and wearing a comfortable looking black tunic that really suits her.

“Are you going to dinner?” She asks quietly, though Erik doesn’t sense bashfulness in her tone.

“I dunno. I guess I have to.” He replies, glancing down to the end of the car. He is, of course, just trying to remain calm and composed in front of Angel—Of course he’s going to dinner. He hadn’t eaten in nearly two days, and if the food is anything close to how luxurious the room was, Erik is intent on eating everything in sight.

After retrieving his shoes, Erik steps out into the narrow corridor with Angel, walking with her to the dining car. The Capitol woman is already there, looking over a clipboard in her hands. To Erik’s relief, their mentor is not there at the dinner table. Erik takes his place across from the empty chair meant for their mentor as Angel takes hers across from the Capitol woman, who smiles pleasantly, albeit nervously at them. The dinner is served in courses, the first of which is a type of beef and barley soup with a green salad dotted with croutons and tomato slices. While Erik is sure this must be boring to the Capitol people, he’s never had vegetables so fresh or soup with so much real meat in it, and he knows that Angel hasn’t, either.

He immediately seizes the soup bowl in his hands, lifting it up to his lips and drinking from it directly, blatantly ignoring the silverware off to the side. The broth burns the roof of his mouth, but he continues drinking, intent on filling his empty stomach with every last drop. As soon as the bowl is emptied, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve and reaches for the salad, picking up a fork and spearing the crunchy leaves with it before stuffing it into his mouth. Angel is eating with the same voracity, and though the Capitol woman is obviously trying to hide her disgust, Erik can’t be bothered with what she thinks. She somewhat forcedly reminds them to save room for more, and when Erik puts down his fork, someone retrieves his used dishes and someone else replaces them with an even bigger plate. Half of it is filled with a steak, and the other half is piled high with mashed potatoes. Though his stomach his full from the last course, Erik immediately digs in, and finds himself almost crying at how wonderfully flavorful and filling the food is.

There are several more courses, which consist of a thick pea soup, a dish with chicken and rice, steaming hot rolls, a multitude of different kinds of cheeses, fresh fruit, meringue pies, ice cream, and then finally coffee, which Erik has never had before but immediately decides that he likes. When the food stops coming, however, Erik is no longer distracted by the new flavors and the wonderful feeling of food dropping into his stomach and he realizes that he’s eaten far too much. It’s a sensation he’s never experienced before, being _too_ full, but he’s sure that the food is all going to come back up if he moves even an inch. Judging by the quiet groans coming from Angel, he can tell that she’s experiencing the same. He burps loudly before he can stop himself, and it relieves the tension in his abdomen by only a fraction.

“Well then.” The Capitol woman huffs. “Why don’t we go watch the Reapings, then?”

Watching the Reapings is the absolute last thing Erik wants to do. He would much rather be carried back to his room, tucked into his enormous, plush bed and sleep off all the food he’s just eaten. He reminds himself that watching the Reapings will give him an idea of what he’ll be up against in the Games, and so willingly walks with Angel and the woman to another compartment with a plush sofa and chairs, and a gigantic screen on one wall.

The Reapings are shown in orders of the districts—That is, District One comes first, followed by Two, and so on all the way to Twelve. As the faces and places flash by, Erik makes a mental note of those who stand out to him. In District One, two blondes are chosen. As Erik watches them standing on stage on screen, they look almost perfect—They are both tall, the girl shapely and the boy with broad shoulders. They both smile at the camera with dazzling white teeth, though the girl’s smile isn’t so much beautiful as it is vicious. She has piercing blue eyes, and as they look directly into the camera, Erik is unsettled by her gaze. He remembers parts of their names. The girl’s last name is Frost, the boy’s first Warren. He makes a mental note.

In District Two, the tributes are once again reflective of their district’s trade. Erik knows that Two trains Peacekeepers, and also produces a lot of Careers with strong warrior mindsets. There’s a short but muscular boy, also blonde, who looks out at the audience with a stony expression. Then there’s a girl, average height and quite lean, with black hair that falls past her shoulders and a stance that indicates she’s ready to attack at any moment. _Alex Summers, Laura Kinney_ , Erik commits to memory. He thinks that, as things are going thus far, his chances of winning don’t look very good. These four Careers, they’ll get plenty of sponsors, being so beautiful and strong. He pushes these thoughts from his mind as best as he can.

District Three doesn’t make much of an impression on Erik. There’s some tiny little girl and a weak-looking boy in glasses who can’t stop fidgeting and looking miserable. His last name is McCoy, but that’s all Erik really gets from them. No one particularly interesting in District Four, which is odd, since it usually produces Careers as well. In District Five, Erik ignores the girl again, but the boy strikes particular interest in him for the simple fact that he is openly crying on stage. Erik is astounded by this blatant display of weakness—He knows that some tributes often present themselves as harmless before becoming cold-blooded killers in the arena as a strategy, but this boy seems far too genuine. The camera comes in to a close up on his face, and he looks sideways into the lens for a long moment before abruptly looking away. Erik notes that he has deep blue eyes, a rich color that makes Erik think of pictures of the ocean that he’d seen in his textbook.

“That kid’s the mayor’s son.” A gruff voice says from behind them, and Erik spins his head around to see their mentor, looking especially burly and haggard as he brings a metal flask up to his mouth.

“So kind of you to join us, Logan.” The Capitol woman greets with at least attempted cheeriness, and the man moves around to one of the chairs beside the couch and plops down into it.

“How do you know he’s the mayor’s son?” Angel asks.

“You aren’t very bright, are you?” Logan says sarcastically, without answering Angel’s question in the slightest. Erik glares at him and looks back to the screen. The boy certainly looks pampered, though Erik isn’t sure if that’s just how everyone in Five is or not. It’s not a Career district, but certainly it can’t be as bad as Twelve.

Erik’s so busy thinking about this boy that he barely pays attention to District Six—Just two relatively young kids, a brunette girl with a very plain face and yet another blonde boy, both looking pretty upset about being chosen—And Erik completely tunes out to seven and eight. A mayor’s son… The boy didn’t look particularly strong, but surely his status would mean that he would get plenty of gifts from sponsors, if not District Five itself.

District Nine catches his attention only because after the two tributes are chosen—A girl with wheat blonde hair that looked no older than thirteen, and a boy with no distinguishing features—Another boy volunteers to take his place. The new male tribute is gigantic—He towers over the crowd, recognizable by his cropped black hair, and the muscles across his shoulders strain against his shirt. As he goes to the stage to stand beside the girl, she immediately moves to wrap her arms around his middle, and he puts his hand on her shoulder protectively. For a moment, Erik wonders if they are romantically involved when the voice over of the program announces that they are siblings. Siblings… Erik catches their last name, Rasputin, and he’s somewhat unsettled by the mere size of the brother and his obvious willingness to protect his younger sister. Someone with nothing to lose except to protect someone else… That could be dangerous in the arena. For the other tributes, anyway.

District Ten passes by with no one that strikes Erik as special or dangerous. District Eleven only interests him when the girl is chosen—She has dark skin, as Erik has seen on most tributes from this district, but also has long silver hair that falls past her waist and shines in the bright sun. It’s uncommon, for sure, and Erik wonders if she dyes it or something like they do in the Capitol. He knows Eleven is almost just as poor as Twelve, as evidenced by their crumbling Justice building and the village surrounding, and knows that can’t be it. Maybe he’ll find out when he meets her in the Training Center.

Finally, they come to miserable District Twelve. Erik is happy that the cameras only cut to the important parts—Names being called, the tributes’ reactions, and how they look before being led into the Justice Building. Erik remembers being shocked, then hopeless, and then positively livid—And it shows on camera. While Angel looks relatively passive, if not a bit worried, while she stands on stage, by the time they turn to enter the building, Erik looks ready to kill. He’s pleased, to say the least. This means he’s already created a sort of persona for himself in the arena. He looks angry, dangerous, murderous, even. Surely this will scare some of the other tributes into leaving him alone, and at least interest sponsors.

The broadcast ends with the seal of the Capitol flashing across the screen and the anthem playing, and the four of them are left in a very still, very quiet room.

“Welp, best sleep well while you can. You’ll be dying in a couple of weeks.” Logan says gruffly, standing up from his chair and beginning to walk out of the room.

“Wait!” Erik snaps, standing up as well with his fists clenched at his sides. Logan pauses at the door, glancing at the boy over his shoulder.

“You’re just going to give up on us? You’re not even going to _try_ and get one of us out of there alive?” Erik demands. How could this bastard just write them off this quickly? This was obviously why District Twelve lost every year—They had the worst mentor of all twelve districts.

Logan turns slightly to him, looking somewhat amused. “You think you’re worth my time, kid?”

“I am.” Erik announces indignantly, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders.

“Yeah. We’ll see.” Logan replies enigmatically before leaving the room. Erik clenches his jaw in anger, resisting following his mentor and starting a fight with him. Though short, it was obvious that Logan outmatched him physically, and had just about as much to lose as Erik did.

“We should all get some rest. We’ll be arriving in the Capitol tomorrow.” The Capitol woman pipes up, breaking the tense silence that Logan had left.

Angel quietly agrees, and both women stand from the couch. The Capitol woman disappears off to take care of something else, and the two tributes walk back to their rooms together.

“He’s useless. He wants us to die in there.” Erik says, breaking the silence between them.

“Probably. At least Moira seems to feel sorry for us.” Angel replies, her tone void of any emotion.

“Moira… Oh. The Capitol woman.” Erik thinks it’s about time he learned her name, anyway.

“’Night.” Angel says unceremoniously, breaking away from Erik’s side as she disappears into her room. Erik watches her go, then enters his own room, kicking his shoes off at the door and immediately crawling in between the soft covers of the bed. It finally seems to settle on him just how exhausting today has been, and he quickly falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	2. The Capitol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the tributes reach the Capitol and begin preparing for the Games at the Training Center, Erik learns more of the mayor's boy from District Five as well as his other fellow tributes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the hiatus, folks. Life is crazy, and I'm always horribly erratic about updating fan fiction. Anyway, thanks to those who waited patiently!

Erik doesn’t care for how make up feels on his face. He knows it’s supposed to look like coal dust, and that’s exactly what it feels like. Grime. He wants nothing more than to wash his face, but he’s been forbidden from even touching it.

Angel has already told him not to complain. She reminds him of some of the past costumes District Twelve tributes have been stuck in. Erik is willing to acknowledge that, yes, at least they’re not in miner outfits, but isn’t being dressed in all black just as ridiculous?

“We look like dead people,” Erik mutters, looking over Angel’s face. It was true—Their stylists had decided on dark makeup, artfully applied to the hollows of their cheeks, their eyes, and along their jaw lines. As if two tributes from the poorest, hungriest district of them all needed any assistance in looking starved.

“I think it makes a dramatic effect,” Angel protests, her long, fake eyelashes brushing her cheeks as she looks down at the chariot they’re standing in.

“Yeah. Death is dramatic.”

“Would you shut up already?”

“I suppose it’s good, they’re already preparing us for what we’re going to look like three days into the Games.”

“Oh. My. God. Just shut up.” Angel rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. A brightly colored member of the styling team comes over and uncrosses them, then takes a brush and swipes some more silvery black powder over her skin. Erik watches in silence, scans over the long black gown they’ve practically sewn Angel into. He has to admit, the black complements her dark skin tone and hair. But seriously, Erik knows he’s fair-skinned, and he truly looks like he belongs in a coffin.

Before Erik can break the silence between he and Angel again, there’s a lot of shouting and running around from the teams. Erik’s suddenly got a make up brush in his face and someone combing his hear for the umpteenth time, then tugging at the fabric of his suit to make sure that it fits without a wrinkle. District One’s chariot  lurches forward towards the entrance of the stadium, followed by District Two, and then Three. When their own chariot begins to move, Angel sways slightly, throwing her hands onto the edge in order to keep her balance.

“I’m afraid I’m going to fall off in these shoes,” She says, eyebrows drawing together in the center of her forehead. While the stylists jog to keep up and assure her that once the chariot is in motion she’ll be fine, Erik just snorts.

“That’d be a show for sure,” He says with a smirk. Angel throws him a dirty look and moves to elbow him in the ribs when the stylists shout that they should remember to smile.

Smile? In this getup? Erik thought the entire point was to make them look scary. Dangerous. Smiling isn’t going to help anyone.

Erik instinctively straightens his posture as they leave the holding area and are carried out into the stadium, the sound of cheering and the bright lighting immediately bombarding his senses. He’s stunned by the sheer number of people in the seats, looking around dumbly. There are at least a thousand—No, two thousand—Five? Five thousand people?

Erik catches sight of their chariot on one of the monitors. Angel is smiling alright, carrying a little pouty smirk on her painted lips. She blows a kiss in some random direction. Erik can tell she’s having a good time in the spotlight. He catches only a glimpse of himself before the monitors focus on another district, but is proud of the fact that he looks dark and solemn. Keeping up this silent but deadly persona is a lot easier than he might have anticipated. In fact, all he really has to do is looked bored, which, of course, comes more naturally to him than breathing.

The chariots pull into the inner circle, before the stage where the Gamemakers and President Snow sit. The speeches start, and Erik immediately tunes them out. Things he’s heard seventeen times before. He doesn’t need to hear it again. He takes this opportunity to look around at the other tributes and their costumes—Some are ridiculous, some are stunning. The tributes from District One, for example, are covered head to toe in diamonds. They sparkle in the bright lights shining down on them, and they’re nearly blinding. District Seven, on the other hand, are probably supposed to be trees, but mostly they just look like vaguely humanoid brown and green leafy masses. Erik is glad that their costumes at least aren’t the stupidest. Curiously, he searched for the boy from District Five, the one who had cried on stage. He was fairly sure that he could see the top of his head, but Erik’s view was obscured by the chariots of two other districts.

The President is at least kind enough to keep the speech short and sweet, and suddenly the crowd is cheering again and the chariots are moving towards the training center. Erik cranes his neck to watch District Five’s chariot, hoping to see the boy in passing while the chariots move into formation. Just as Seven shifts out of the way, though, their chariot begins moving and Angel loses her balance. Erik reaches out without a second thought and catches her arm, pulling her back to her feet. He looks down at her for an instant, then realizes that he was missing his chance to see the District Five chariot. His head snaps up and to both sides, searching desperately for the head of brown hair, but it’s too late. All he can see is the back of Eleven’s chariot, and the dark girl’s shimmering silver hair all done up in flowers. Erik swears loudly, letting go of Angel and glaring at nothing in particular.

As the doors of the training center close behind them, the stylists are instantly upon them. Angel is helped down from the chariot, at which point she promptly kicks off her shoes and announces that she would not be wearing them again. Their mentor miraculously appears from the throng of people, clapping Erik so hard on the shoulder that the younger man is thrown forward.

“You look like a goddamned fairy. But good job not fucking up the ceremony.” He says gruffly, barely concealing a smirk. Erik scowls openly at him, rubbing his shoulder and protesting as the stylists approach to fawn over him.

All the way to the interior of the training center and the elevator, Erik licks his thumb and tries to clean the dark make up from his face. Angel shifts uncomfortably in her dress, and as they stand in the elevator car, leans against the wall and rubs the soles of her sore feet. The Capitol woman clicks her tongue in disapproval, but both tributes ignore her. They’re exhausted, and hardly ready to begin training in the morning.

District Twelve, being the last as always, has their quarters on the very top floor of the center. The elevator ride seems to last forever, only because Erik has never been in an elevator before and doesn’t much care for the sensation of being carried away from the ground. However, all resentment and exhaustion is forgotten as soon as the doors pull back and reveal their living space—Erik actually draws in a breath at the sight, and Angel squeals from beside him.

“This will be your living arrangement while you’re here at the center—“ The capitol woman starts, calmly stepping out of the elevator. Angel rushes past her, her head turning so fast in every direction that Erik almost expects her neck to snap. He follows, trying to keep his composure as he looks around at the impeccably clean surfaces, the colorful furniture, the shining walls, and the streamline design on the place. After seeing this, Erik can hardly believe that he ever thought the train luxurious.

“Now, I understand it’s been quite a long night, so why don’t we all have a bite to eat and then settle in for bed?” The Capitol woman suggest kindly. Erik nods in distracted agreement, wandering over to the sitting area and running his hands over the black couch. The windows across from him overlook the city, which glows with electric lighting and the headlights of cars. He has trouble accepting the fact that this place exists at the same time and in the same universe as poor, dirty District Twelve. “You two go clean up and change. There will be food here by the time you’re finished,” Moira promises, gesturing to their rooms on the opposite side of the suite.

“Yeah, okay.” Erik tears his gaze away from the crystal vases filled with fake flowers, catching sight of Angel fawning over the chandelier above the dining table before turning to his room. He closes and locks the door behind him, and finds the bedroom to be just as luxurious as the open living space. The bed is big enough for four people, and Erik runs his hands over the coverings. There’s a window in here, too, which also overlooks the city. He gazes at it for a moment, still in a daze of awe. It takes him a while to remember that he’s supposed to be showering.

The bathroom exceeds even the showers on the train—It’s just as spacious as the bedroom, with a large tub and chrome fixtures, a huge mirror, a sink Erik could probably manage to bathe in, and even overstuffed chairs in the middle as if one might need to sit down while brushing their teeth. He strips out of his costume, taking the opportunity free of the restricting costume to stretch and brush some of the silvery black powder off of his skin. He walks over to the shower, standing outside of it as he figures out the complex and foreign control panel so that he doesn’t burn himself. After about five minutes of fiddling, he finds a comfortably hot temperature and a soap that won’t make him smell like a woman or a bucket of chemicals, and steps inside. The hot shower is just as rewarding as the one on the train was, if not moreso, and Erik shamelessly wastes plenty of time just standing underneath the water. He scrubs every speck of makeup from his body and face, and washes his hair twice to rid it of the product put in by stylists.

Once he’s satisfied with how clean he is, Erik turns off the shower and walks out into the bedroom to search for some fresh clothes. He finds that the closet is some new modern miracle, and he can enter whatever he likes and it will be delivered directly to him. After a moment of thought, he decides that something similar to what he wore on the train would be appropriate. The closet provides clean underwear, dark pants, a warm sweater and shoes not unlike the black boots he wears at home. He dresses quickly, finding the shoes to be twice as comfortable as his own.

When Erik finally leaves his room, Logan, Moira, and Angel are already seated at the table. Logan and Angel are already eating, though Moira sits politely with untouched food. Erik sits down next to Angel, mouth beginning to water as he looks down at the steaming hot meat stew before him.

“I tried to tell them to wait, but they just wouldn’t.” Moira says to Erik, and he stares at her. Wait for what? Him? To eat?

“Uh… Thanks. Uh, you didn’t have to.” Erik replies unsurely. He doesn’t want to be mean to the woman, but he thinks it’s ludicrous to wait to begin eating on someone else’s account. Must be some kind of Capitol custom or something. Moira watches him for a moment, then lifts her spoon and begins eating. Erik refrains from shoveling food into his mouth, remembering the sickeningly full feeling he’d gotten after his meals on the train. The four sit in relative silence, the only sounds filling the room being those of slurping, chewing, and silverware scraping against porcelain.

Once the third course is being set in front of them, Logan leans back in his chair and lights a cigar. “So, what’ve you two got for training tomorrow?” He asked gruffly.

Angel and Erik glance at each other, then shrug in unison. Logan chews at the end of his cigar, annoyed. “C’mon. You gotta give me something.”

There’s a tense silence before Erik decides it was best to just throw something out there. “I’m a pretty fast runner, I guess.”

“There we go. I can fuckin’ work with that.” Logan sets his chair down on all four legs again, pointing at Angel. “What about you?”

“I, uh… I don’t know…” Angel says, rolling her eyes and trying to act indignant to distract from the fact that she has absolutely no talent.

“You’re good at making guys want to sleep with you.” Erik jokes cruelly, and Angel picks up her glass to throw hot tea into his face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, sweetheart. You can’t burn your tribute’s face off before you get into the arena. There’s laws against that.” Logan stops her, holding a hand up. Angel growls, setting the cup back down. “And you, bub, don’t be an asshole. Never underestimate the power of being likable.”

“Likable?” Erik asks, incredulous. Logan sighs impatiently.

“Look. People like ya, you get allies. More important, you get sponsors. You catch my drift? You can charm your way through the whole damn thing.”

“Oh, that’s how you won, then? Charm?” Erik asks sarcastically, raising his eyebrows and concealing a smirk.

“I said, don’t be an asshole.” Logan snaps, pointing his cigar at Erik for emphasis.

“I’m quick, too.” Angel pipes up.

“Alright, agility. That’s great. You two know how to handle any weapons?” Logan looks between them.

“Weapons aren’t allowed in the districts,” Erik reminds him.

“Don’t tell me you ain’t never broken a law or two,” Logan scoffs, tapping the ashes off his cigar into his food.

“No. Not that one,” Erik says firmly.

“I know how to handle a knife,” Angel confirms.

“God, it’s like my fuckin’ dream team.” Logan puts his cigar back in his mouth.

“Hey, it’s not like we want to be here, either.” Erik glares at their mentor, picking up his water and taking a sip.

“Yeah, yeah, I gotcha, pipe down.” Logan puffs thoughtfully on his cigar, scowling down at the tablecloth. Moira dabs her mouth gently, and Angel and Erik resume eating. The silence returns, remaining all the way through dessert. Erik’s almost through his fruit tart when Logan finally speaks again.

“Alright. Tomorrow in training, you two try everything. Figure out what you’re good at. And don’t just stick around the weapons stations just because they look exciting or you wanna show off or something. I mean do everything.”

“That’s your plan?” Erik asks, skeptical.

“You got a better one, kid?” Logan retorts. Erik realizes that he doesn’t, and stuffs his mouth with the last quarter of his tart. “That’s what I thought. See you two in the morning.” Logan gets up from his chair and strides off to his room, slamming the door behind him.

“I think you two will enjoy training.” Moira comments cheerily, and Angel and Erik just stare blankly at her before standing up from the table. “Alright, sleep well,” She quickly adds, trying to sound natural. The tributes both ignore her, retreating to their rooms for some long delayed and much needed sleep.

~

Erik is woken at the break of dawn for training. Logan isn’t kind about it, either—The man simply barges into the room, turns on the lights, and then rips the covers off of Erik, yelling about being lazy and Erik’s life depending on him getting up. Erik seethes in silence as he crawls out of bed and proves to Logan that he’s really awake by walking back and forth across the room a few times. Logan leaves, and as Erik changes into his training uniform, he hears that Angel is being woken just as rudely. Erik feels slightly less miserable.

Logan and Moira both insist they’ve got full days ahead of them at the breakfast table, and send the tributes down to the training area by themselves. Angel and Erik say nothing to each other, looking in opposite directions while tugging at their clothes and checking their shoe laces. They join the group of tributes already standing at the doors, and Erik realizes that this is his chance to see the boy from District Five. He looks around with as much subtlety as he can, catching sight of him just a couple of meters away, looking attentive as the training leader talks about the stations, the rules about fighting other tributes, and how to handle the heavy weaponry. Erik knows that he should be concentrating on discovering some sort of skill, but he decides to keep an eye on this boy for the day.

As they enter the gym, Erik is overwhelmed by the sheer number of stations and equipment available. He hardly knows where to starts. Of course, the careers immediately head for the heavy weaponry, while the less sure and trained unsurely move towards the lighter weapons and survival stations. The mayor’s son glances around, then makes a beeline for the plant identification station. Plant identification?! Why would you want to study plants when you could be learning defense, or how to build a fire, or a hundred other useful things? Erik glances over his shoulder, seeing Angel already at the small arms station, examining different sized knives with the trainer. Reluctantly, Erik follows the blue-eyed boy.

The trainer seems excited to have two tributes at his station. One got the feeling that his craft isn’t exactly the most popular. As they begin looking at pictures and holding specimens of plants together, Erik learns quickly that the boy is sharp. He already knows most of the plants—More than whether they’re edible or not, but all sorts of scientific names and native habitats and useless information that Erik would never care to remember. Erik’s just pretty proud of himself for knowing what an onion looks like from above ground.

Eventually, the boy comes out of his plant-filled dream world to introduce himself to Erik. Erik finds out that his name is Charles Xavier, and he is, in fact, the mayor’s son. “I’m Erik. Lensherr.” Erik replies awkwardly.

Charles beams. “I know, I saw you on television. District Twelve.”

“Yep. Twelve. That’s me.” Erik mumbles, staring down at the burdock in his hand.

“Coal, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Five is power. Isn’t that sort of ironic? Coal, power. You burn coal for energy.” Charles explains cheerily. “Can’t have power without fuel.”

“Uh, yeah. I guess so.” Erik can’t help but smile just a little, handing the plants back to the trainer. “I’m gonna go check out some other stations.”

“Alright! I’ll catch up, maybe.” Charles promises as if they’re already best friends, turning back to the plant guide open on the counter to identify some leaves.

Erik wanders over to the knife station with Angel, unsure of where else to really go now that his curiosity about Charles has been quenched. After an hour or so, he discovers that he’s actually quite good at throwing knifes, provided the targets aren’t moving too quickly. As if he’s going to be throwing at trees, he bitterly reminds himself, yet continues practicing. He’s distracted, though, looking around the room between each throw to see what the other tributes are up to. The tributes from District Two are fiercely fighting the trainers with swords, the girl from Ten is turning out to be quite an archer,  and the silver-haired girl from Eleven has joined Charles at the plant station and has fallen into conversation with him. Erik sees the massive boy and his sister from Nine in the far corner, speaking quietly to each other and engaging in absolutely none of the activities. Erik is suspicious of this, and decides to keep an eye on them as well.

After a few hours, Erik’s arms and shoulders ache from the constant throwing of knives, but his aim has improved considerably. He thanks the trainer and briefly considers trying something else, but decides to put it off until the next day. He runs into Charles and the silver haired girl at the door, immediately stepping back to let them go through first. But Charles surprises him.

“Oh! Erik. This is Ororo. She’s from Eleven,” He introduces kindly. Confused, Erik just gives the girl a nod, which she returns. Does this kid think this is some kind of social event? “She’s very good at identifying plants.”

Ororo laughs at this, glancing over to Charles. “I should hope so. I’m around them all day.”

“Right, agriculture.” Charles laughs as well. Erik has never wanted to leave a conversation so desperately in his life. “We were going to go up to the roof. Do you want to come?” Charles asks Erik, who shakes his head almost too soon.

“Uh, no. I need to… Talk to my mentor.” Erik says the first excuse that comes to mind. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering to be so polite when he normally wouldn’t. Maybe because this kid is just so damn nice.

“Alright, some other time. Good bye!” Charles heads out the door with Ororo, leaving Erik feeling confused, and at the same time, curious about this Charles character once again.

 


End file.
